


A Healthy Heart is a Healthy Life

by ErinPtah



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Backstory, Baking, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Night Vale has more parts than just a Voice, and Heart health is very important. A short history for Old Woman Josie, and some of the people she knew along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Healthy Heart is a Healthy Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Teaotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaotter/gifts).



It was possible to act as an extension of this town without even knowing it. Especially in those cases where the role came and went within a few minutes. You could spend the day imagining yourself to be a perfectly normal human/dragon/sentient meteorological phenomenon/fist-sized river rock/etcetera, and only later, if at all, would you look back and wonder if you were embodying an aspect of a sentient town at one point in the afternoon.

Even Josie, who has one of the longer-term Roles of Night Vale, couldn't say for sure when it started.

If she had to guess, the first thing that came to mind was an incident back when she was still PTA Chairwoman Josie, teacher of history at Night Vale High. One of the best writers in her class, a young Leann Hart, had stood up in front of the other students and delivered a report claiming that former Mayor Christian Evans did absolutely nothing for the town in his entire term, "probably because he was a small and not particularly fast-moving spider," and any evidence you might have seen to the contrary was cleverly planted by apologists in the lead-up to his final failed election campaign.

This was definitely not true. Also, somewhat racist. Josie told Leann to stop by after school, and made sure to conjure up some fresh cookies in the meantime.

The story came out in bits and pieces over oatmeal scotchies and tea. Leann had tried, honestly, to do the research. She and her study partner had even gone to the library. Then her study partner was ripped apart by librarians in a heroic feat of defense that bought Leann just enough time to escape, alive but empty-handed. She had spent several days lying catatonic on one of the couches in the café next door, until at last a white hawk had landed on her shoulder and woken her up — its mournful cry somehow conveying to the depths of her soul that she had less than eighteen hours to finish this report — before going on to buy an energy drink and a single-serving packet of chips.

Josie listened to the whole story, sympathetic to a fault, all the while being absolutely certain of two things:

First, that it was a complete fabrication.

And second, that the truth was traumatic enough that what Leann really needed right now was to be cut a little slack.

So Josie let the girl go with a μ+ on the paper and a Tupperware full of spare cookies, which seemed to help even though they were a little too crumbly. She was going to have to get better at conjuring. That, or learn to bake.

 

♥ ♥ ♥

 

Back when the bowling team was in its early days, it almost always featured an NVCR intern or two. As long as the current interns were interested, over eighteen, and still in possession of an appropriate number of limbs.

Intern Cecil was only seventeen. But he was so excited by all the team stories he'd heard from Intern Malala (before, in a record-breaking non-radio-related death, she was crushed in a collapsing building on Valentine's Day) that they talked about bending the rules.

Steve was against it. "It's not like he's going to die before he hits eighteen. We've all seen his name on the tablets down at City Hall. And once he's the Voice, he'll stay around for years, which leaves him plenty of time to bowl. By the way, Leann, did you approve my editorial on government overreach yet? I finished the thirteenth round of corrections and sent it back to the _Journal_ a week ago."

Leann, now a junior editor down at the paper, thought it was a fine idea. "Why are we so hung up on birth years, anyway? What if he wasn't actually born, and is just claiming he was in order to fit in better? That's totally a thing that happens. And, Steve, I'm afraid your strident and argumentative prose was accidentally shredded and used to line the cage of our office pit viper, Dusty. Better try again."

The vote was not a tie, but they all ended up looking to Josie for the final decision anyway. "I don't see any reason this nice boy can't be a sort of honorary member," she said. "Let him practice alongside us, and of course he can come watch games — it's not as if the bowling alley is closed to the general public except on full moons and alternate Tuesdays, is it? He can even have a team shirt. He's so terribly average, I'm sure we'll find a spare in his size."

 

♥ ♥ ♥

 

Steve Carlsberg's first child was still a baby when Josie retired, so she never interacted with him on a teacher-to-parent basis. And in spite of their shared bowling experience, she never got to know him especially well compared to anyone else in town. Which still meant that she knew him very well indeed.

It wasn't a surprise in the least when Steve showed up at her door in the middle of the night, twitchy and haggard, his shirt buttoned up wrong.

"Oh, dear," sighed Josie. "You've really stepped in it this time, haven't you?"

"Seems like it." Steve let out a faintly hysterical laugh. "Shouldn't have come here, but I didn't know who else to ask — I won't stay long, I swear —"

"Don't be silly," said Josie, patting him on the cheek. "Of course you will. Come inside, and I'll make you up a bed."

She pulled out the sofa bed — with Steve's help; she was slowing down a bit these days, so it was nice to have an extra pair of hands around — and talked to him about innocent things like the weather. (It's been very classical lately, lots of violins. Good for her zinnias.) No mention of conspiracies, or the government, or whatever secret Steve had stumbled into. She already had some idea, of course, but it would be better for him if he didn't outright tell her.

Steve was just lying down when there was a loud banging on the door. "So inconsiderate," muttered Josie. "They'll wake the neighbors. Especially poor You. Steve, have you met You? Very new in town, You just moved in to the trailer next door, and You were always such a light sleeper."

"Pretend you're asleep. That'll stall them," said Steve. "I'll sneak out the back."

"You will do no such thing, young man." Josie rather liked that she'd gotten old enough to throw that phrase around. "Sit down. I'll deal with this."

The Secret Police Officer on her front steps was a tall young man with knobby limbs, skin a few shades darker than Josie's where it showed around the eyeholes of his balaclava, wearing the all-black uniform like it didn't know how to fit on him yet. "Miz Josie! I mean, um, citizen! Official business," he said, trying with limited success to adjust his voice lower. "Step aside, please."

Well, Josie didn't need any special powers of empathy to recognize the student who was so polite eight years ago about asking for extensions on his homework so he wouldn't have to skip baseball practice. "Terrell Flynn, it's a good thing you showed up," she declared.

"Ma'am?" stammered Officer Flynn.

"You're just in time to help me out! The PTA meeting isn't until tomorrow evening, but there's no reason not to get started early."

She marched him through the front room, so briskly that he didn't have time to notice Steve hiding behind the TV stand, and into the kitchen. The lights went on. She lined up flour and sugar on the counter, and opened the door to the cupboard with mixing bowls and measuring cups.

"Five and a half cups of flour, two-thirds of a cup of sugar," she ordered. "Grab a large bowl and start stirring. I won't be a moment."

Leaving Flynn to scramble with ingredients, she went back to the front room. Steve was trying to force one of the windows open wide enough to climb out.

"You'll never make it. That thing hasn't opened properly in years," Josie told him. "Besides, I need someone with good strong arms to whisk the eggs. Now come here."

It was the most basic scone recipe she had; she got the sense that Steve, at least, couldn't be trusted with anything more complicated. The important thing wasn't the recipe, but the fact that Flynn certainly couldn't stop to arrest Steve before the dough was fully mixed...which gave Josie more than enough time to lead the two men into talking out their feelings.

By the time they put the first tray in the oven, Steve had been guided into a nice convincing apology, and Flynn was persuaded that there really was no need to take him in for re-education, "this time! But if you endanger town secrets again, Mr. Carlsberg, I can't make any promises."

"Now, dear, I'm sure he'll be a wonderful citizen in the future," said Josie, and meant it. Not that Steve would ever quit being a government agitator — or a bit of a jerk sometimes — but she could tell that at some point in the future, he would be exactly what Night Vale needed.

 

♥ ♥ ♥

 

After Leann was promoted to senior editor of the _Night Vale Daily Journal_ , she insisted that the next meeting of the knitting club be at her newly renovated house, to let everyone appreciate the interior decorating job.

"Ooh, is this room Imperial Russian?" cooed the heavily-pregnant Michelle Flynn as they settled into the drawing room. "I love it! "And is that a genuine Fabergé egg I see?"

"What, this?" laughed Leann, pointing to the intricately-detailed bejeweled egg on her mantel. "Hahaha, of course not! That would be ridiculously expensive, and the paper would never be able to cover it! This is a cheap knockoff, see?"

She knocked it to the ground. It shattered on the beautiful hardwood floor.

Teeth clenched into a rictus smile, Leann ground out, "See, obviously it's fake, because if it had been real, I would be _horrified_ right now."

They each found a seat and got out their current projects. Josie was putting the finishing touches on a pair of booties for Michelle's upcoming baby; once those were done, she was going to start on a matching Baby's First Machete cozy.

Presently Leann went to the kitchen to grab a round of snacks. Josie followed. "Let me help you with those," she said. "And I'm sorry about your fake Fabergé egg."

"I told you, it was a fake —"

Leann caught herself at the redundant denial, and peered suspiciously at her former teacher. Josie gave her a charming smile.

"Do you know what you are?" blurted Leann.

"Well, of course, dear," said Josie gently. "It would be hard for me to miss."

The younger woman groaned. "You would think so, wouldn't you? But then you get someone like Cecil, who honestly has no idea. I swear, I've broken into his apartment at night and whispered it in his ear when he's sleeping at _least_ a dozen times, and it still hasn't sunk in! He goes right along thinking his radio show is just _naturally_ as important as the noble and respected institution of print journalism."

"We all have our blind spots when it comes to ourselves," pointed out Josie. "My, this is lovely bruschetta. Did you prepare it all on your own?"

"Oh, definitely," said Leann. "I most certainly did not have a four-star chef come in this morning just to prepare my hors d'oeuvres. Where would you even get that idea?"

 

♥ ♥ ♥

 

 **BE NOT AFRAID** , said the mass of wings and eyes and wheels of fire, in a voice that rang through the house, made the foundations tremble, and shattered two of Josie's best plates. (Somewhere, not far away, a perfectly-tuned seismic monitor registered an earthquake that nobody could feel.)

"Do turn down that light! My eyes aren't what they used to be," ordered Josie, shielding them with one hand. "And I appreciate you speaking up, but is there a frequency that doesn't resonate with any of my china? If it's not too much trouble."

OH, SORRY, said the angel on a different frequency, muting its blaze of glory. Then, uncertainly: ARE YOU...NOT AFRAID ALREADY?

Because it wasn't native to Night Vale, the angel wasn't subject to Josie's ability to connect with its feelings from the inside out. Still, it didn't feel hostile — to the town in general, or to her in particular. So no, she wasn't afraid in the least.

"I'm a bit worried for the rest of my dishes," she offered.

That seemed to cheer the angel up. BE NOT WORRIED FOR YOUR DISHES, it intoned. WE HAVE COME NOT TO BRING HARM, BUT TO FULFILL A GODLY MISSION.

"Well, aren't you helpful! Let's have it, then. It won't be long, though, will it? _Breaking Bad_ is on in fifteen minutes."

NO, NOT LONG, the angel assured her. MOSTLY WE JUST NEED TO BORROW YOUR SALT.

 

♥ ♥ ♥

 

All of Josie's clocks were telling her that it was the middle of the day, and yet her house was getting no sunlight.

She had a guess about what was going on. It wasn't a pleasant one. It didn't help that she couldn't feel anything from the helicopters circling above: not the connection she had to the various unmarked helicopters that came from within town, not a general sense of friendliness, nothing at all.

The radio was on. Cecil had already reported Josie's earlier message that the angels had gone missing. Now, as she peered at the helicopters more closely with the opera glasses she hadn't gotten out in years, he was delivering a friendly PSA about heart health.

_Right behind your ribs, kind of to the left, is a potato-shaped muscle lump filled with straw and maybe some insects. That’s your heart! Pull that out and sew your chest back up. Wash your heart in warm water, pat dry with a paper towel, and roll flat on a floured surface. Brown both sides in a sauté pan, and eat immediately._

_Remember, a healthy heart is a healthy life!_

From anyone else, it would simply be sound medical advice. From the Voice, it rang heavy with metaphor (whether he realized it or not). If Night Vale lost its Heart, the town would fall; but if its Heart was simply extracted from its chest cavity and reabsorbed in a different way, the town would survive. Even if it had to spend a while lurching around in a daze in the meantime.

There were a lot of people Josie wanted to call right now, and only one way to reach them all at once. Besides, she did have new information, and it was her duty to the community to pass it on.

Trying to stay hopeful, she got out her phone and dialed up the Voice.


End file.
